Date: Thu, 12 Jun 2008 16:08:25 +0100
From: Anthony Thomas
Subject: BigSarge [gay] 4
BigSarge by Ant-Boy Chapter Three [Formatted A4, Times New Roman, 12]
Warning: This is a homoerotic tale written for fun to be read for fun. If
you don't like it; Blah! Blah! Blah!
However - if you do please let author know Ant-Boy@hotmail.co.uk
Chapter Four
There was something about that card and its terse message that hit a cord
somewhere I hadn't known existed. I almost threw it away and then when I
finally got home, washed up and recovered, found myself searching
frantically for it, finally texting my mobile number before falling into a
deep sleep where I dreamed of Darth Vader calling out, 'Come here boy and
sit on this.'' Problem was with the lousy lighting and his black costume I
just couldn't make out what I had to sit on.
Nothing happened for the rest of that week and I'd almost decided it had
been a wind up when I got a text message, 'when are you free for two nights
boy?' I replied, 'not for two weeks. Friday pm to Sunday pm.' Did I
really want to follow this up, I almost sent a follow up to cancel the last
when I received, 'You will call me Sir boy. It's the least of what you'll
be calling me in two weeks.'
Well. I could always back out later, say I was ill or something, and this
texting might be fun. There continued over the next week a series of texts
during which he uncovered my place and hours of work, that I lived alone,
that I was not really that experienced just always randy and a whole load
of other stuff I never realised I let out. When the second week started
his texts changed. Now he was telling me what to do, just little things
like stick a plug up my arse and a strap round my cock, and then take the
rubbish out in a pair of skimpy running shorts.
I obeyed the first but wore my usual shorts to discover a text waiting the
moment I walked back through my door, 'I said your running shorts boy.'
Followed by, 'If you can't do a simple thing like that I'll find someone
else.' I didn't want him to find someone else; I was getting involved in
this strange relationship almost against my will. Tearing into the bedroom
I tore my shorts and T off replacing them with just the skimpy runners and
rushed back outside, bending over facing the house as if to pick up some
rubbish, with my arse in the air and showing the bulge from the plug if
anyone had wanted to look.
I waited as long as possible, even chatting to a neighbour for a moment who
must have wondered at my mode of dress then returned inside, hardly daring
to check my phone. 'OK boy, this time. You wont get another second chance.
Same again tomorrow but with full bladder around eight, I'll text.' Eight?
It would only just be dusk; anyone going by would see everything. Why was
I hard as hell, I grasped my cock and a couple of squeezes had me shooting
inside my shorts. He was keeping me aroused every waking moment. I'd just
cum and wanted to start again.
The next evening, the last before I was supposed to visit him, by eight I
was clothed as he'd instructed, same as previous night but this with a
uncomfortable bladder. I wasn't even sure I wanted to go through tonight's
little charade, let alone visit for a weekend. Ten past eight I was
starting to squeeze my cock in a vain attempt to ease the pressure. That's
it, I told myself. I'm being messed around. He won't come. Just go and
piss in the bathroom. Forget him.
My legs were almost crossed, the phone rang. 'Now,' it said, 'bring the
phone with you.'
I hobbled rather than ran to the front yard, then toward the bins. For the
first time I noticed a dark coloured small truck parked over the street
with darkened windows in the rear section. Was he there? I played toward
the truck anyway and then stood beside my gatepost as if looking down the
street. Ding. A text. 'Let it go boy.'
Have you ever tried to piss standing in a public street in the twilight,
your cock and balls strapped up, a plug up your arse and just wearing a
pair of running shorts. Even though my bladder was bursting I just
couldn't make it start. Ding. 'Crouch down and pull the plug from your arse
boy.' This was mad. Still I obeyed. It was admittedly a small plug and
popped out readily when I managed to get my hand inside the waistband and
returning to an upright position I discovered the flow had already started.
Flow? More like a gushing torrent soaking my thin shorts and flooding down
my legs and trainers to pool under my feet.
After a while the truck moved off, I never saw anyone move into the drives
seat, and I waited a moment longer before making a very careful journey
back indoors glad I'd thought to leave an old towel just inside the door. I
only had time to strip what little I wore when Ding.
'You may just do boy. Have to see. Don't wash shorts or trainers, bring
with you tomorrow. Expect call when you finish work. That will be your
last chance to back out. I WILL HURT YOU.'
That night crowds of storm troopers in leather straps pissing over me and
telling me to let it go joined my dreams of Darth Vader. I woke to
discover I'd soaked the bed, luckily always made up with a rubber under
sheet for solo play and only had time to strip the sheets, start the wash
cycle and have a quick shower before off to work. No time for a wank,
quick or slow and that I really did need.
I never really got my erection to go down all day and by the time four came
round was fed up with comments from the other staff not to mention being in
receipt of a slightly sore tip from all the rubbing it had received in my
jock.
Five minutes past, I'd only just got to the changing room and picked up my
phone to check when Ding. 'Change. You don't need jock or T. Ride to
...... and I'll call.
It was difficult to hide from my fellow workers that I'd removed my jock
but manage to get my denim cut-offs over my package, then socks and boots
followed by just my leather jacket. 'No T?' someone asked. 'Too hot,' I
replied. They were used to me dressing a bit odd as they called it and I
got away with that. Purring down the main roads, then off on a couple of
side ones warm wind caressing my chest and up the legs of my shorts did
nothing to ease the excitement rumbling bin my groin. When I got to
...... all I wanted to do was rip my fly open and jerk off violently. I
think I would have done but that bloody phone went again. Ding. 'Quarter
mile down road wood frame house well set back on left. Drive into open
garage. Strip. Leave clothes on bike. Wear trainers and carry run
shorts. Come and knock on door. This is your last chance boy. Once in
you stay until Sunday afternoon.'
Why didn't I even reconsider? My cock led me; I had no control over that.
Also, in retrospect, he'd played me like a master. Well, I suppose he was
one. He became mine that weekend.
I followed his instructions exactly.
I found the house without much problem and rode in to the double garage
containing another bike and the black van I'd half expected. As I left,
quite naked apart from the dirty trainers and carrying the shorts I heard
the door slide down behind me. The house was set back from a side road
with several trees to shield me, even so I felt quite exposed as I rang the
doorbell.
It was several minutes before he stood before me and I got my first real
look at the man who would be changing my life.
Very dark as I'd seen before, around six foot so slightly taller than me,
close cropped crinkly hair, both eyes and glistening teeth standing out in
a frowning face, followed down by a body at least twice a broad as my own,
everywhere, but without an ounce of fat to be seen. Washboard stomach,
biceps, thighs, bulge in tight cotton shorts, all huge, but somehow not
extreme, his body was all beautifully in proportion.
He looked down at me from the doorstep and without warning lashed out with
one hand sending me sprawling to the ground. 'Boys like you don't call at
front doors. Go round the back and sit on the ground where you belong,
also drink the two bottles of water you find there while you wait for me.
I'll be out when ready.'
He closed the door with a slam, not waiting to see if I obeyed. What else
could I do, my bike and clothes were locked in his garage, all I had were
the dirty little shorts I carried so I rose to me feet and trudged
carefully round to the back, tears running down my face. But how much they
were tears of pain and how much of despondency I couldn't say. My prick
was still hard.